


Boys' Toys

by littlealex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-20
Updated: 2008-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlealex/pseuds/littlealex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prompt - Dean/Shotgun. The result - "What do I leave behind besides a car?" Dean finds the answer in his trusty line-up of guns. Sam faces a moment when his brother could be dead, and then... realizes his brother is just exceedingly drunk and should really get some shut-eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys' Toys

Dean didn't really know how many drinks he'd had. He remembered the first beer, the second whiskey, but by the third shot of tequila he had definitely lost count. Which wasn't surprising, really. He wasn't a lightweight, but he wasn't Superman, either. He couldn't be expected to keep count, not at a time like this, not when Sam had decided to run off and leave him there on his own. Well, okay, maybe he hadn't run off, exactly, he had gone to find Bobby but that wasn't the _point_. Sam had left, just when Dean felt like he definitely needed a shoulder to - wait, no, he didn't cry, not in front of people, and _especially_ not in front of Sam. He just needed someone to make sure he didn't get this drunk.

It was Valentine's Day, for fuck's sake. Not that... you know... Dean needed anyone, certainly not his brother, to validate him, or make him feel better about not getting any tail, but he had at least thought he would be able to pull tonight. It was _Valentine's Day_ , wasn't there some lonely hearts club girl who'd love to see out the rest of the night with him rather than a tub of Ben and Jerry's? Not in this town, apparently, and so the only thing left to do was get drunk. It was the obvious alternative, right? Girls stayed home if they were single on Valentine's Day, watched sappy movies and ate ice cream, and guys just went out and got drunk. Circle of life, or something.

Whatever, it was just another day. It wasn't as though he had ever actually done anything on Valentine's Day _except_ go to bars and chase skirt, so there were no expectations to live up to. There had been that one time, after Cassie... he'd written her a letter in the neatest handwriting he could manage on the road, on some prissy floral stationary he'd bought at a gas station, but he'd never sent it. It hadn't said what he wanted it to, he'd sounded like a complete girl, and anyway she had broken up with him, right? That meant no more contact, and he knew that, so he tucked the letter away in the trick bottom of a briefcase he only used to look official and never looked at it again. He wasn't even sure he had the briefcase anymore.

Anyway, this Valentine's Day was just like the rest of them, nothing special - striking out wasn't even that different - except for the fact it was his last one.

He didn't want to think about that, though, so it was lucky that the bartender told him it was last call. He was jogged him back into the here and now, which apparently meant polishing off the last of a very strong bourbon and Coke. It was only when he stood up that he realized he was even more drunk than he had imagined, and had no idea how he was going to get back to the motel. He had made his way there pretty successfully, but the way the ground was pitching beneath his feet and the bar was coming in and out of focus, he wasn't sure it was going to be so easy to get back.

Somehow, it happened. Dean wasn't quite sure how, except that there was a lot of leaning on lamp posts and mail boxes, and he was pretty sure he pissed in someone's garden (or at least he hoped so, because his fly was undone). Then, miraculously, he was back at the motel room. Sam was still gone (Dean wasn't sure how far away Bobby's was, but he had the distinct impression Sam should have been back by now, at least to give him some water and tuck him into bed), and there was still crap spread all over his bed from before he had gone out.

It wasn't just any crap, though. He had been cleaning his guns before he left, and while he had put them all back together before he went out, they were still laid out on his bed. They weren't strewn haphazardly like they sometimes were when they had to leave in a hurry, but placed neatly in a row, ordered from largest to smallest and protected from the coarse comforter with an old, worn, grease-streaked rag. Dean looked at them first thing when he came in, and couldn't help the way his face softened a little.

"My babies." Dean didn't make a habit of talking to himself, much less talking to inanimate objects (unless it was the Impala, but she had a _soul_ , goddamnit), but right now, all the alcohol swimming in his blood told him it was the right thing to do. They were, after all, the only thing that had stuck with him through the whole night. Even if they hadn't been with him physically, they'd been there in spirit, and Dean went over to the bed, knelt down in front of his guns, and tilted his head to look at them.

"You've always... been there for me, girls. You never... never let me down, go missing. Never backfire, never jam. Well, 'cept that one time, but that was some kind of magic and it wasn't your fault." Dean didn't notice, but he had somehow managed to tear up in the emotional tension of the moment, and he sat back on his heels, picking up his favorite gun from the middle of the line. The polished surface glinted in the lamp light, and Dean let his hand dip a little, measuring the weight of the gun. It was a solid, heavy, reliable weight he was so used to, and it felt like home.

It was easy, the way the gun rested in his hand and he didn't need to think about holding it. It was natural as anything, to curve his fingers around the hilt, his index finger just light against the trigger (he might have been drunk, but he had checked the safety first), and it was comfortable. So comfortable he couldn't help the way he sighed as he looked at it, longingly as though it was going to give him a kiss. It didn't, of course - he was drunk, not tripping on acid - but he pressed it to his cheek as though it had just said something sweet and closed his eyes tight. The cool metal was a shock against his warm skin, but he didn't mind.

"I'll never abandon you," Dean whispered to the gun, his eyes still shut tightly as he leaned into the metal surface, his head tilted a little more, resting on the patterned barrel of the gun as though it was a pillow. A single tear escaped his eye just then, trickling over his cheek before sliding along the contours of the detailing, and a shuddering sigh escaped him. He didn't really know why he was tearing up, but he was. It felt right, alone with his gun like this, even though it made him seem a few eggs short of a basket.

It didn't last long, though. It was too comfortable, and the alcohol was making his head feel heavy and tired. He couldn't help it. He was drunk and clearly over-emotional, so he leaned forward a little, and leaned his head down on the bed the gun still pressed against his cheek. It wasn't exactly a genius idea, falling asleep with a gun in his hand and metal digging into his face, but then... he was drunk. It was easy to forgive minor aches and pains and besides, he was asleep before he could feel his cheek go numb.

***

Sam had gotten Bobby back to the motel eventually, but it was too late to do anything about anything. The night was nearing day, and this was going to be a three-person job anyway. There was no point in trying to extract Dean from whatever pretty little thing he'd hooked up with for Valentine's Day so they could go to some haunted house - that was if they managed to find Dean, anyway. They'd figure it out tomorrow, when everyone was well-rested. So he left Bobby in a room a few doors down and made his way back to what he thought would be an empty room.

The room wasn't empty.

What Sam saw seemed to make sense at first glance. He saw Dean resting on the side of the bed and assumed that he had passed out drunk after not finding a girl for the night. Sure, it was a little odd that Dean had been kneeling at the side of the bed and hadn't actually gotten into it, but... well, his guns were on the bed, and sometimes little obstacles like that were just too much to overcome.

Upon closer inspection, however, Sam noticed that one of Dean's guns was missing from the line-up. His favorite gun wasn't there. The gun Dean made sure was always shiny on the outside and clean on the inside, the one he took with him almost everywhere. As these thoughts floated through Sam's mind, he couldn't help the panic that rose in his chest. Dean wouldn't let that gun out of his sight, and the way he was slumped.... If someone had fucking _killed_ his brother, he was going to tear apart the town, starting with that creepy-ass haunted house and the bitch spirit who had fucking smirked at him like she knew something.

Sam rushed to Dean's side and knelt beside him, his heart pounding as though he had just run a marathon. "Dean," he said, a hint of desperation in his voice, shaking his brother's shoulders. It was only when Dean actually stirred that Sam realized he wasn't actually kneeling in a pool of blood, nor were there really any other signs of struggle. Dean made a little noise just then, shifting his head just a little and then Sam saw it. Dean's favorite gun, tucked under his cheek like a security blanket and Sam let go of his brother's shoulders.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. The next thing he knew, he was laughing quietly to himself as he struggled to catch his breath. The panic had been so real; sheer terror had filled him and run through his bloodstream - what would he do without Dean - but now that he knew his brother was just passed out drunk, he had to laugh.

Sam stood up a moment later, legs slightly shaky, and leaned over to remove the rest of the guns from the bed. Dean must have been absolutely trashed, because he usually managed to at least flop on top of the bed, even on his sloppiest nights. Plus, not only had he fallen short of the bed, he was clutching his gun like it was a teddy bear, and that was just _funny_.

Getting Dean into bed, however, wasn't going to be funny, and Sam knew that from experience. Just because he was shorter than Sam did _not_ make him lighter, and it was always a struggle to move him. Sam first attempted to get the gun away from his brother's face, but it proved more difficult than he thought. He slipped his hand beneath Dean's (which was hard enough, what with a heavy head rested on top of it) and tried to tug the gun away. Dean's grip seemed to tighten, however, and he mumbled something about a baby (Sam really wished he could turn off his hearing right about then) as he pulled the gun closer.

This was going to be difficult.

Trying another strategy, Sam pressed his hand to the middle of Dean's back and moved it gently in wide, soothing circles. "Dean, come on, it's time to get into bed," he murmured into Dean's ear, quiet but firm words that would hopefully get Dean moving at least enough for him to pry the gun away.

It wasn't as though Dean got drunk a lot - he drank, but he didn't get drunk - but Sam knew how to handle his brother, and usually a few calming words and an encouraging nudge would Dean make him into an easy, pliable human being who would be led willingly into what was right for him. It sort of worked this time, only Dean would not let go of his fucking gun.

Dean stirred eventually, rolled his shoulders and moved his head away from the gun - a moment of triumph for the patient younger brother. Sam snatched the weapon from Dean's hand and put it on the ground, using the way Dean had woken up to ease his brother onto the bed. One hand on Dean's elbow, his other hand on his hip and he tugged his brother off his knees and rolled him onto the bed. It was easier now that Dean had given up the gun and, with a practiced hand, Sam helped Dean strip off his outer layers of clothes (the buttons were too difficult for Dean) and guided him under the covers.

"You know," Sam said, as Dean curled up on his side, the gun's imprint still obvious on his face, "you really need to get laid, man. I mean, sleeping with a gun?" It was too bad Dean was asleep. There was so much to make fun of that, Sam didn't even know where to start, and dishing it to his unconscious brother was just a waste of ammo.

Sam just grinned, a little laugh caught in the back of his throat, and pulled the rough comforter up and over Dean's hunched shoulders, patting him gently. "Dude, when you wake up, you are _so_ never living this down."

***

Dean woke up slowly. His consciousness seemed to float to him as though it was fighting something. When it got there, it turned out that the thing it was fighting was a huge-ass wall of pain, which it had thoughtfully brought with it to the front of Dean's mind. Pressing his hand to his forehead, he groaned loudly and squeezed his eyes shut ( _not helping, not helping_ ) before he opened them. All the outside world had to offer was a blinding light and the fuzzy figure of his gargantuan brother standing at the foot of his bed, laughing.

He didn't know why Sam was laughing. Only that it hurt his ears. Seriously, there was nothing funny about a hangover, and he pushed the covers back from his chest as he sat up slowly. He took his time waking up, tugging his t-shirt the right way around and adjusting his downstairs parts as some contents had obviously shifted during the flight. What was so funny? He was just a little frayed around the edges, that's all. He rubbed his face, clearing his eyes of sleep, only to find that his cheeks hurt. Sam's laughter got louder as Dean flinched at the pain, and as though someone had snapped their fingers his memory of the night before came back to him.

"Oh, you're fucking kidding me," he groaned. Suddenly, he could see clearly and he looked up at Sam, who had his mouth over his hand and was trying not to laugh - of course his massive shoulders were still shaking and he couldn't hide anything. "You ever breathe a word of this, I swear to god I'll -"

"You'll what? Sic your bedtime buddy on me?"

Dean didn't say a word for the next three hundred miles.

**Author's Note:**

> i_speak_tongues prompted me. I caved. Thanks to gestaltrose, antigonesgift, and its_never_lupus for the beta. Also, the _random_ Valentine's Day mention is because this was also a Valentine's prompt.


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